


My Time

by Fox_Pause



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death is a character, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Better?, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, More tags to be added, POV Stiles, Sad Stiles Stilinski, Stiles-centric, he's adorable tho, the whole thing is set in heaven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8367868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Pause/pseuds/Fox_Pause
Summary: Stiles has always been loyal, more than any wolf. Will he stay loyal once death comes knocking?Will he sacrifice his place in heaven to help those stuck on earth?





	1. People always leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning's for suicide - Although it's only ever heavily hinted at, I think its better just to warn you now.

Screeching. Crying. Pain. Blood.

Screaming silence. Light. Bright. Too bright, painbrightmakeitstoppleaseican’t-idont.

Silence.

Dead.

He’s dead.

 _Finally_.

-

It’s awfully quiet.

Silence flows around him like a stream, knitting together fairy-floss clouds until only a single, sweeping sheet stretches on for what seems like an eternity. Muted sheens of pink and blue remind him of something beautiful, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but there’s something keeping him an arms length away.

He doesn’t know where he is, and while that should bother him, (after all, he was raised a…. no. Can’t remember that either.) he can’t find it in himself to care. It’s all just subdued beauty.

 _My, what a beautiful day_.

He closes his eyes, basking in the magnificence of the small, prefect details. The clouds. The fragrance. The subtle breeze combing through his scraggly beard. The pastel sunset. He frowns at a stray thought, then smiles. It’s all here, right in front of him, all this beauty, but it doesn’t _really_ matter. Not anymore, anyway.

Nothing matters.

He doesn’t remember much. He knows his name and how to spell it, but not why he needs it now. Maybe because he liked it too much to let go.

He isn’t really sure.

The misty platform he’s standing on is fragile, constructed from water dew and angel tears. He’s not sure if he wants it to solidify, or to break beneath him. Can’t remember if he was, at some point in time, afraid of heights. He lifts one foot, puffing a hole into the dense clouds, looking down at flat plains and man-made rivers.

They dip and dive, swoop and fall, but there’s one mountain- correction, hill- in particular he gravitates towards. He follows the natural curve of rock until it peaks, smiling when the sunset turns bare stone an ashen yellow.

A scream echoes out from below, somewhere near this hill he’s accustomed to. It’s loud and brutal, capable of splitting the atoms in the air. It rings loud in his ears, bouncing around his brain like a pinball machine. He distantly recognises his name, contorted by the banshee’s shrill. It makes him move his head, slow and lazy towards it’s source. 

There’s a girl crying below him, rocking something heavy back and forth. If he focuses, narrows his eyes, he can only just make out wisps of red hair tangling together in the open air, although it’s hard to tell through the heavy cloud cover, and suddenly he feels awful.

He doesn’t know why.

He wants to see if she’s ok. He feels like she… Used to be…Important? To him? He reaches out a hand, but the clouds swallow up the gaping hole, plugging it with cloud cover, once again blocking his view, and effectivley shadowing his mind.

~~His attention shifts from the weeping woman.~~

He looks around himself, forgetting about the flaming girl. Looks at the clouds instead, at the sunset. He smiles into the emptiness.

 _It’s such a beautiful day_.

The static of silence flitters around him for some time. Consumes him. Only when he realises that the static has sunken into his skin, turned into a rabid buzzing under his skin does find it in himself to move. His limbs are loose and lazy, dragging through the clouds as he shuffles forward.  He trudges through the mist for what seems like days, the sunset neither rising nor falling before him as he walks, only stopping when he stubs his toe on something warm and alive that melts away the cold.

He looks down, seeing something golden glittering at his feet. He stoops down to get a closer look, but his hand latches onto something solid and warm mid-air. He grasps onto what seems to be a bar, following the shape up until It’s slipping out of his hand, arching high above him, triumphant. A gigantic golden gate beams before him, settled among the clouds.

Blankly, he gazes between the bars as it glides open, soothing disgruntled clouds in its wake. He watches as the purest clouds sweep up, swirling around a single figure.  Dew sticks to her skin and she smiles, big and wide and open.

Erica.

He smiles back, but makes no move forward.

“Hey there Batman.” She strides forwards on long legs, white clouds fanning out behind her like the wedding dress she’d always hoped for. He laughs, loud and long and boy, his throat is raspy and dry, but he swallows around it anyway. “Hey Catwoman.” They both laugh together, as if the gate between them didn’t mean a thing.

She looks sad. Forlorn.

She stops short, blonde curls tumbling from her shoulder as she tilts her head. “Why are you here, Stiles?” She takes a breath as if it pains her, admiring him through long lashes. “What went wrong?” He shakes his head, hand coming up to scratch the nape of his neck.

“I don’t know.” Those words, they make him feel sad. It’s not the thought of not knowing that saddens him, it’s the words themselves. They’re bitter and harsh when they tumble from his mouth, like they have a vendetta against… everyone. He laughs loudly, startling Erica from her thoughts. She smiles sadly.

Pressing an open hand against the gate, she wills it open, a wide gap soon separating the main bars which hum soothingly under her guidance. She steps back, arms open and welcoming. “I guess that doesn’t matter now, does it? You made it Stiles. Welcome to heaven.”

-

He smiles, craning his head to look over her blond head at the mounds of cloud erupting behind her. He squints, straining to see glowing figures as they slowly make their way towards him, arms open, beckoning him closer.

He wants to join them.

He wants to be free, to be surrounded by people who loved and cared for him. He wants to meet his mom. Wants to see her smile, have Erica tell him just how alike they look. He wants to see Boyd again. Wants to see everyone he’s missed, for so long.

He wants to go home.

With a surge he moves forward, but is jolted back into place. There’s a hand, heavy and burning on his shoulder.

It’s heavy and thick and pulls him partially through the cloud cover. He looks up, whisky eyes swirling with fear, locking with stormy blue as Erica races forward, face twisting in determination as she latches onto his hand, refusing to let go. She braces her feet as the others come to help, but the hand on his shoulder only gets heavier and suddenly, Stiles thinks he might be ripped in half, an anvil tearing apart his skin.

He screams, but it’s drowned out by a clap of thunder that ripples though the clouds, halting everybody in their struggles.

The clouds part easily. Everyone looks down at their feet. Stiles joins them a second later, but he’s not sure why.  Someone walks into the calm of the storm and Stiles notes, somewhat distantly, that he didn’t say goodbye to dad this morning.

As if on cue, everyone raises their heads. The hand on his shoulder slithers its way down to the small of his back, a burning pressure as the someone, a man, the one who’s yell sounds like a thunderclap, begins to glow a brilliant white.

Squinting against the harsh light, he focuses on the blonde-haired man with murky green eyes, large owl’s wings arching high above him as he speaks. An _angel_ , his mind groggily supplies. The Angel cocks his head to the side as he glides closer, as if Stiles is an interesting bundle of bones and limbs and blood yet to be sorted into the right formation.

Stiles isn’t sure he likes it.

“I wouldn’t come any closer if I was you, Tes.” The angel’s speed does not alter, but the man holding Stiles tight does. The hot palm on his back becomes an agonising pressure tearing its way through him and he can’t help, doesn’t want to it, but before he can choke on words he’s _screaming_.

He shrieks, hot tears running rapid over pale skin, but he can’t help but note, somewhere in the back of his brain that it sounds different, more warped, and soon Erica’s shrill joins his, followed by the other glowing figures, and soon a chorus of agony is resounding throughout heaven.

The angel – Tes – raises his hands in a placating gesture, eyes unsettled as he backs up a few paces. “Have it your way then, Lu.” He glares at the figure behind Stiles, who, in turn, releases Stiles from his grip, but doesn’t let him get any further away than a hands length. The angel’s jaw ticks as his wings flap, the distant echo of tiny bells ringing as he draws them up again, more placating than aggravating, having seemingly found something suitable to say. “You can’t have him. He belongs to us now.” Lu sneers behind him, rage seeping into the air like a plague. He points an angry finger at Tes, before his hand fists into Stiles’ skin, drawing it taught.

“They made a deal.” Stiles thoughts halt, a blank veil swooping through his consciousness in a flutter leaving him clueless, grasping at mere tatters of memories. Who the hell are ‘they’? “Or at least, they tried to.” Lu takes a disinterested breath, but there’s still a playful lustre to his voice that paints Stiles’ world dim. “They tried to get him back. For free.”

The angel seethes.

* * *

**End Of Chapter Notes**

I was working through a lot of personal issues when I started writing this fic. I have more than 10k words down, so I should be able to update relatively soon. This work is not Beta read. If you liked this work, please, please comment and leave kudos. This work is too personal to have up if people aren't going to let me know they enjoyed it. (I know I'm not usually like this, but the whole reason I'm uploading this one in particular is so that people who are in the same state of mind as me don't feel so alone, but If i'm the only one out there... well, fuck.) 

 

Thank you for reading, I hope to see you in the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

His skin burns. He keeps forgetting why. Supposes it doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things.  All he knows is that everyone seems to be angry with him. He doesn’t know that either. Seems like he never does -did, sorry. It’s did now, isn’t it?

 

This time though, Erica is with him. She’s different from last time he saw her, in the – well. He doesn’t quite know. The memory slips from his grasp at the last second, like a bright streamer flicked from reach in a cruel game of keep away. He knows she looks happier now though, flashes of the old Erica darting into his mind like koi feeding on breadcrumbs – Death has been kind to her.

 

She’s standing opposite him now, a frown marring her face in a way that’s eerily familiar. She saying something, but it’s a mismatched jumble of words that make his ears ring. She winces, crouches down to his level and squints, talking in a hushed whisper that he only catches the tail of. “- lucky they stopped when they did.”

 

He frowns at her, the muddled sentence smudging the meaning. “what?”

 

She rolls her eyes but forces a small smile. “I said you’re lucky they stopped when they did. You’re still mortal. They probably would’ve killed you in the crossfire.”

 

Something dark and horrible seeps through him, drawing his features into a perfectly blank expression “Oh. Okay.” His eyes flicker to the clouds at his feet as he plays with them, watching his knuckles glide through the flushed tendrils with ease as he sits, hunched over himself. 

 

He feels Erica’s hand settle on his shoulder, too hot for thin skin, but lets her offer him whatever comfort she’s willing to spare. Figures it’ll do her more good than him. He doesn’t meet her eyes just yet. Figures there’s no point.

 

They stay like that for a little while, a one-way stream of comfort, until a garish thunderclap shatters through the cloud cover and another figure flashes to life, just short of the gates. He’s old and ragged and has deep swirls of purple under his eyes, but aside from that he looks to be fine, just a little scraggier than what he’d expected. The man is a contradiction, a focal point even when unintended. Erica tenses, hand fisting his shirt roughly as she draws herself up to her full height. She turns, dress billowing out behind her as she moves, harsh and rough towards the man.

 

He blinks owlishly at her, but doesn’t make any attempt to move.

 

“You’re going to fix this. You did this to him, asshole.” She flings a pointed finger at Stiles, and it feels – sounds, a lot like she’s waiting for her favourite toy to be fixed. Stiles wishes he could will his lead mouth open, get his stone tongue to move, to tell her that he isn’t broken, that this- whatever he is can’t, couldn’t be fixed.  He was just better at hiding it before she left. That’s all.

 

The man stares, looking right through her open eyes until his tired ones catch on Stiles’ hunched form, cowering in the cloud cover. He smiles, eases Erica aside and makes his way over to Stiles, each footstep painting the clouds a stormy grey before shrinking back to a soft pastel. The man stands, does not crouch, next to Stiles. He breathes loudly, but aside from that, neither male makes a noise. It’s Erica who breaks the silence, voice once again too loud.

 

“You gonna tell him, or do I have to do that too?” She huffs and Stiles swears the soft glow framing her form flickers an inky red before settling back down again. The man sighs, makes a shooing motion and doesn’t stop until she’s moves several paces away.  

 

“I get it, Bozo. No external factors. Whatever” She moves a dozen spaces further away, cupping her hands over her mouth as she speaks. “I’ll be back as soon as this dickwad here’s done. ‘kay?.”

 

Stiles sighs as Erica makes her way back to the gates, sifting whisky eyes back to the nameless man once she’s safe, edging up the old frame slowly. Slowly, uncooperative eyes focus, squinting roughly at the sight before him. The man, whoever he may be, is wearing old sneakers and baggy suit pants. The pants are filthy, barely hidden underneath a large, timber-coloured sweater that’s ten sizes too big.

 

“who are you?”

 

A tense smile tugs paper lips into a tight line as the man shakes his head, hands reaching into his pocket as he pulls out a thin, over-used cardboard notebook. Sitting back on his knees, he taps the notebook with the back of a pen, offering Stiles a small smile before flipping open the pad with a twist of the wrist, scrawling something down in tiny handwriting.

 

‘ _I didn’t want to take you’_ He messily scrawls.

 

Stiles glances up, an echo of understanding dawning. Still, he lets his eyebrows furrow. “I don’t understand. Didn’t want to take me where?” The man watches Stiles’ face carefully before he nods, eyebrows echoing Stiles’ in concentration before he turns back to his notepad, a small grimace digging gullies along old frown lines as he writes.

 

‘ _I took your mother when you were younger, when It was her time_.’  He lets the pad hang between them, and Stiles can’t bring himself to focus on anything besides the harsh chicken scratch before him. His brain groggily comes to life, fumbling to put the pieces together.

 

‘ _I had to take you. It wasn’t your time, but you forced my hand. I wanted to watch you grow into your skin. Help those who surrounded you. But the world was cruel, your friends even more so. We both know you had to leave._ ’

 

Cloud cover wraps around his trembling body as his hand flies up to his mouth, open and gaping as hot tears stream from his eyes and flood down his cheek, dripping from his jaw. They pierce the cloud cover, tumbling to the world below as a sun-shower.

 

_‘I hope you don’t blame me for not taking you the first time. I had to be sure you wanted to come home.’_ The man blows a gentle breath on eyes clamped shut, an oddly comforting gesture that dries his tears, leaving dry, salty tracks in their wake. He hiccups and forces his eyes to open, searching the man’s gaze. Comes up blank.

 

The man rests his notebook on his knees and sits back, burying his feet beneath the clouds. He dips a hand into the mist, cupping it gently. He reaches into the pocket of mist, twirling his fingers through the dew before carefully settling the handful back down, scrawling a short message on the paper.

 

‘ _Watch_ ’

 

The small patch of cloud dims noticeably, bubbling away before curving up, taking the shape of a woman, laying in what seems to be a bed. Stiles watches, fascinated as it moves on its own, watching the woman cough, wracking her body with the effort. A small cloud boy enters the space, sitting in the corner all by himself, gazing at the woman laying down and Stiles knows, can’t ignore the feeling, the logic, that he knows how this story goes all too well.

 

Suddenly the mist flares red as the boy runs to the bedside, his little cloud limbs folding and trembling beneath him as he fumbles with the remote tied to the bed but he knows, he knows it’s too late. A figure, a man, floats in from above and reaches down, picking up and cradling the woman in his arms just as other cloud people rush in, distraught and terrified. The man takes no notice of them, only of the boy cowering in the corner. He floats over, smoothing a hand down his cheek before stepping back and soaring up, woman clutched to his chest. He lands deftly on the stranger’s knee in an odd contrast of the past and future meeting and he settles her down. Soothing a hand over her forehead before the whole scene dissipates, returning to a milky pink.  

 

He stares at that spot for a while, for once, feeling, more that believing, that what he’s seeing is real. It takes a lot. His mouth pulls down and he tires to resist, but its like someone’s attached weights to his jaw while he wasn’t looking and he just. Doesn’t have the strength to fight anymore –hasn’t for a while- so he lets it go, and soon he’s sobbing, again, weeping into the heel of his palm as he smears tears into his skin in an effort to stop them cascading down his cheeks.

 

The man – Stiles now knows is Death – reaches out an age-spotted hand, rubbing along Stiles’ arm. Despite the contact having a slightly chilling effect, he appreciates the gesture.

 

“Now what?”

 

Old hands flip through the notebook, pausing at a dusty page before offering the book to Stiles. He takes it gingerly in hand, ignoring it’s decomposing sandpapery-like texture, taking in the page slowly. The page itself is well-used and crumpled, like someone ripped it from its binder in a fit of rage, only to soothe it back to normal once the damage was done. It smells mouldy and stale, like it’s been around since the beginning. It probably has, he thinks. On its surface are three words, ingrained deeply in the page, possibly weighted down by the sheer weight they carry.

 

_‘Now you choose.’_

* * *

**NOTES**

I really, really hope everyone likes the way I've written death! Personally, I'm not afraid of death. But for those of you who are, I wanted to make him seem as friendly as possible. Apparently, my brain thinks that is the form of an old, dirty, homeless man. You get what you pay for, am I right? 

I'm thinking of making my own art to go along with this, maybe something in [this style](http://a-tiny-bit-marvelous.deviantart.com/art/LAKE-641906537)? Please take a look and let me know what you think! If you don't wanna comment here, let me know on [my tumblr!](http://fox-pause.tumblr.com)

 

AS ALWAYS, PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS IF YOU ENJOYED!

(It lets me know if I have to post the next chapter or not!)

 


	3. Chapter 3

Shit. He’s never been good at making decisions. Even when his memories are scattered thinner than pigeon feed and he can barely remember his left from his right, he still knows he was always a shitty decision maker. A good planner? Yes. Abso-fucking-loutley. Decision maker? Not so much. When he has time to plot all outcomes and make an educated guess after a good 4 hours of mulling it over, sure, then he’s fine. But to make a decision of this calibre on his own? You’ve got to be frigging kidding.

He huffs and puffs as he stares at those three simple words, all lined up in a row. He _can’t_ choose. He doesn’t even remember who he is, and this man – death – is expecting him to just-

Nope.

Rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye, he hands the pad back with a sigh. Sits back on his heels, mimicking the man who’s waiting patiently for an answer.

The two men sit there for a while, amongst the cloud’s that can’t seem to decide whether they want to be a pastel pink, or blue. The silence is weighted this time, not like before. It’s heavy and sticky and clings to his skin until he can’t take it, just like the buzzing and he knows he just has to do something. He sighs loudly, down, into his hands. His breath makes the clouds billow of of its path and they clear, only slightly. Through the semi-transparent blanket he sees the world below him, see’s the Hill that should remind him of so much but doesn’t. His heart tells him that’s wrong, that this place is special, but his head tells him no, we don’t remember anything.

So Stiles does what Stiles does; _did_ , best. He gets an idea. 

He clasps cold hands in his lap and leans forward slightly, startling the old man from his staring. “Look. I know what you’re asking isn’t – uh- isn’t that big of a deal to you as it is to me, and I know you probably make these kind of decisions all the time, it’s just. This is a big deal for me? So. I get it if you don’t get it, and I’ll do my best to explain, but I need more information before I make a big decision. And this is a big one, you know? Kinda’ life or death big. You know? I just- I don’t have enough information, dude. I don’t even remember what I look like. So. Yeah” He peeks at the old man’s face. His dark eyes are wide, but soon the skin around them crinkles in a smile, crows feet stretching out to his hairline, barking a rusty laugh. He slaps his knee and rocks back, a cloud of dust scattering from the old material as he rubs at it, clearly amused. Flipping to a blank page he writes; _‘I’ve never had someone try to make a deal with death quite like that before. Very refreshing. I always knew I liked you, Stiles.’_

Stiles isn’t quite sure what to think of that, so he just smiles and cranes his head a little. “Thanks. I guess?” Death just smiles, shakes his head and scoots closer, holding the pad so Stiles can see clearly. _‘This kind of deal is rather rare, actually. I’ve never had a banshee, werewolf and human simultaneously offer their lives in trade for someone who took their own life voluntarily_.’ He lifts the pen from the page before adding ‘ _usually they just stay dead_ ’ with an exclamation point at the end. Stiles just screws his face up in thought. What the hell is a banshee?

Death nudges his arm, smiling softly when Stiles winces apologetically. He taps the pad, and Stiles nods, ready to continue. _‘I can help you, if you’d like. I can’t take you back without heavy consequences, but I can show you glimpses of how you left the world. Only if you’d like, of course.’_

Stiles pauses, his curiosity easily getting the better of him. ‘If. If I did choose to go back, what would happen to me?’ Death sighs, frowning for the first time. _‘I couldn’t put you back how you were. That body is… gone now. I’d have to send you to a good friend_ -’Death’s hand stills as he gets a faraway look in his eyes, before flipping the page and scrawling messily there. _‘- who’d wrap you up in a different body, all shiny and new, and nudge you towards those who need you. You won’t be able to talk, and you won’t remember who you were, but you’ll do what you intended just fine. Once you’ve done that, once you’ve fulfilled your purpose, you won’t get to come back here, ever. I’ll have to let you go with Lu._ ’ Stiles crumples a little at that, unsure as to how he should feel.

“I get to see them before I make my decision, right? I don’t have to choose now?” Death shakes his head, small particles of dust scattering like wild birds from his hair. ‘ _I’ll show you a little later. After you’ve spoken to your friends. I don’t think you’ll let them get in the way of your decision._ ’ He gives Stiles a knowing look that somehow makes Stiles feel more at ease rather than less, and shoos him away.

Stiles stands, somewhat shaky and makes his way over to where Erica’s waiting. She squeals and claps and jumps around, making the clouds at her feet keel and crumble into each other. He laughs as he makes his way over, which she speaks over “Yes Bats! Finally decided to come to join the party!” She throws her arms around him before he has a chance to respond, arms flailing beside him. She smells the same, and her skin feels unbelievably warm. He awkwardly pats her on the back, mumbling “I-uh-haven’t actually decided yet.” She stills and he swears she goes cold in his arms. She pulls back slowly – something he knows she only does when she’s trying to hide something and asks him, straight-faced, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He pulls back, slipping from her arms easily. “Yeah. I. uh. I still have to decide. Have to see the mess I made before I make any more stupid decisions. Don’t really wanna make things worse. Sure I’ve done enough of that already, actually.”

“No kidding.”

He laughs, then winces. Now is not the time to joke. Drawing in a great breath he asks somewhat hesitantly “Is anyone else here, or is it just you?” He sounds hopeful, even to his own ears that maybe, somehow Erica was the only one who died, that the others made it away, making the wise decision to leave the place that killed them. The place that seems to be killing everyone these days.

Her gaze drops as his heart stills, barely catches her muttering “Nah. Everyone’s here.” He can feel his face pull down, his brow furrowing. “oh.”

“yeah.” She lifts her head, sweeping blonde waves behind her ear. “None of us made it out. But. It’s actually not that bad here, like, we get to do whatever we want! The clouds took some getting used to though. They’re annoying as fuck.” Stiles huffs a laugh. Of course Erica, the always leather sheathed, sharp-toothed, could-rip-your-throat-out-in-an-instant Erica doesn’t like the fucking pastel coloured clouds. Of fucking course. “I barely remember what dying felt like.” She adds solemnly. “But on the plus side, I guess we never get hungry. And its always perfect weather and-and there’s nothing up here that wants to tear my lungs out.” She laughs “I’ve never really felt like that before.” _Oh right_ , Stiles thinks to himself. Erica never really had a moments peace back on earth. Fixing him with a steady glare, she adds “I guess none of this is helping, is it? To make you stay here, that is.”

Holding her gaze he smiles, gently shaking his head. “you know I have people to take care of. Gotta make sure dad’s alright.”

“Well. At least you’re remembering people now. That’s something I guess.”

Catching his laughter she shakes her head, pulling him by the shoulder towards the big gates. “I guess you’d better meet the others before we let you leave. They’ll never stop bitching if I don’t.”

He stumbles as he’s dragged across heaven, or purgatory, wherever the hell this is, his feet catching him once they’ve stopped. He stares up, through the bars, into the faces that grow more familiar with each second. His mouth drops open, happiness tugging at the corner of his lips when he lay eyes on her.

Mum.

* * *

**Notes**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next one might take some time, as I need the artwork to be done before I write the rest.**

**Please leave comments and Kudos.**

**Let me know your thoughts.**


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